Silence and Superheros
by Winchesterforlife
Summary: Dean Winchester hasn't said a single word since the fire; John is still struggling to hold the shattered pieces of his family together. John decides it's finally time to learn how to really hunt; enter Bobby and Caleb. Can they teach John how to hunt and convince Dean that it's okay to speak? Mute Dean, young Winchester boys.
1. Chapter 1

**Hey y'all! So this is my first fanfiction attempt in a while; I was thinking about what happened right after Mary died and how it affected Dean. The story will feature Bobby, Caleb, John, Sam, and maybe Pastor Jim. Please, read and review!**

 **Dean's six, Sam is two.**

"Why don't you talk?"

Dean stood at the water table in his first grade classroom, floating a toy ship on top of the water. It was recess; Dean had decided to avoid the playground. Whenever he went outside and tried to play alone, other kids would approach him. At first they wanted to play; but when they tried to talk to him and he didn't reply, they said mean things.

" _I bet he's too stupid to talk. Probably never learned."_

" _Only babies don't talk."_

" _Maybe the reason you don't have a mommy is because she left when she saw you were stupid."_

Dean ignored these comments; these kids were the stupid ones. They hadn't seen what he had seen; they didn't know what he knew. If they did, they wouldn't talk either. They wouldn't sleep at night either. They would be just as scared as he was.

The girl who asked the question today wasn't one of the bullies; she was a new girl in the school. She sat in the seat next to him; they had shared crayons earlier during art.

"My name is McKenzie," she'd announced as she reached for the orange crayon. "What's your name?"

Dean hadn't answered, of course-he never did. Instead, he grabbed the yellow crayon and colored in the sun on his picture. He refused to look up; he didn't want to see any more sneering faces, any people who believed that they were smarter than him just because he didn't want to speak.

Dean reached for the peach crayon and started to draw his mother. His mom had known that he was smart-she had read with him every night and helped him learn how to write and add, even though he was only four. She had told him every night that he was her little man, her smart little professor, and he had loved it.

He used to talk. Back when his mom was alive, he loved to talk. He would ask questions and tell jokes and even read books to Sammy, his baby brother. Sammy had been really little back then-he couldn't even walk. Now, his brother was getting bigger, and he was learning how to do the talking for the both of them.

"Your name is Dean, right?" McKenzie asked him, snapping him out of his reverie. Dean looked up at her and raised an eyebrow. "The other kids say that you're stupid. I don't believe them. I saw your addition test and you got all them right. That's not stupid."

Dean knew he wasn't stupid. He could read chapter books and add two-digit numbers and do everything any other first grader could, and more. How many other first graders could shoot a rifle? How many other first graders knew how to keep vengeful spirits away? How many first graders could protect themselves from demons and everything else that walked through the night?

Dean kept playing at the water table, all but ignoring McKenzie. The little girl picked up a pail and began to collect the water and dump it back into the table. Dean watched his toy boat bob up and down in the waves for a moment, before turning and walking away.

SPN~SPN~SPN

Later that night, Dean sat in the kitchen of the home the Winchesters were renting, watching Sammy finger paint. Sammy was two now, and Dean's favorite person in the entire world-mostly because Sam didn't ask him for anything. He didn't care if Dean talked-he just wanted his brother to be by his side, always ready to play.

John watched his boys from the doorway, his arms folded over his chest. A half-smile played on his lips; he loved how well his boys got along. Dean was always there for Sam, ready to protect him, and Sam was beginning to speak up for Dean when he needed it. At two years old, Sam Winchester was just beginning to speak in full sentences-and it was exciting for all of them.

John remembered the days when Dean had begun to speak. As a toddler, the boy had been lively-his first word had been "no", quickly followed by "nap". John used to look forward to hearing his son's voice as soon as he walked into the house after work; Dean would run to him and ask how his day had been, just before begging him to take him to the park. Most often, Dean got his way-he, John, Mary, and later Sam would amble over to the playground every night in the spring. Mary would hold Sam and watch while John push Dean on the swings or taught Dean how to throw a football.

Dean's voice had been so vibrant in those days; he had been an animated little man, talking a mile a minute. John would kill to hear that voice just one more time.

Dean hadn't said a word since the night of the fire. The last time John had heard his son speak was when he had handed six-month-old Sammy to him and told Dean to run and not look back. At first, the doctors had believed Dean's sudden mutism had a physiological basis-ash in the airway. But as days had turned into weeks, they had revised their hypothesis-selective mutism as a result of trauma. They had recommended therapy. John had sent Dean for a couple weeks, but then he had quit his job to find the thing that had murdered his wife, stolen Dean's mother away from him, and caused his son's condition. Hunting didn't come with health insurance; Dean seemed relieved when John had pulled him out of therapy anyway. John had been confident that Dean would soon begin talking.

It had been a year and a half of silence.

"Hey boys, you hungry?" John asked his children, ruffling Dean's hair as he walked into the room. Dean's eyes lit up, and he looked up at his father with a smile. His father made him feel safe and loved.

"Ya, Daddy!" Sam exclaimed, waving a paint-covered hand in the air. John grabbed a hand towel and wiped the toddler's hand off, but not before Sam managed to leave a handprint on John's shirt. John sighed, but then smiled-he loved these kinds of moments with his boys.

"What do you want for dinner, Dean?" John asked. He didn't expect a verbal answer, but he liked to keep Dean included; eventually, the boy would speak again, and John would keep giving him the opportunity until he did.

Dean walked over to the refrigerator, pulled out a package of hot dogs, and handed them to his father. He contorted his face into an expression that was supposed to look pleading; John laughed.

"Hot dogs it is, Ace," John replied to his son, walking over to the stove. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Sam place a hand in the green paint before touching Dean's cheek. Dean smiled at his brother and kissed him on the forehead.

Despite all that the Winchester family had been through, John knew that he was lucky to have these boys; they were all that kept him from falling to pieces. He just wished Mary could be there to see how beautiful her sons truly were.

SPN~SPN~SPN

 _Dean could hear his mom screaming. At first, he was confused. He stayed in bed for a moment-but then he heard his Daddy, and his Daddy never yelled. Something was wrong._

 _His eyes opened, and he jumped out of bed. He ran down the hallway towards the sound of the screaming. Just before he walked into Sammy's room, he could feel heat; but then, he saw the fire._

 _And then he saw Mommy._

 _She was hanging on the ceiling, her face frozen in horror. Flames surrounded her; blood poured out of an open gash on her stomach. Her eyes were open, but they weren't moving-Dean wanted to scream, but he couldn't._

 _His daddy was in front of him, and Dean felt a rush of relief. His daddy was strong. He could fix anything. "Daddy!"_

 _But when he turned around, he looked scared. "Take your brother and don't look back. Now, Dean!"_

 _Dean took his brother in his arms and ran, away from the fire, away from Mommy on the ceiling, away from anything that could hurt him; he was so close to the door-_

 _But then, a wall of flames shot up, and Dean was trapped in the fire, trapped with the monsters, unable to escape._

Dean Winchester awoke with a start; he sat up and screamed, horrified. He wasn't calmed when he realized it was a dream, because he knew it would happen again. It wasn't the first time that he had had this nightmare; he'd been having them since the fire. Sometimes he would get out, but his daddy would be trapped. Other times, he would be the one on the ceiling. They were always terrifying, and he never got any relief.

Dean's bedroom door was thrown open, and his Dad rushed into the room in his pajamas. Dean threw off his comforter and ran to his father. John crouched down and wrapped his frightened six-year-old in a hug.

"It's okay, Dean, Daddy's here," John reassured the child. John hated these nightmares with a passion; they happened at least once every couple of weeks, and they left Dean even more scared then he typically was.

Dean looked up at his father with tears in his eyes, hiccupping quietly; John held tight to Dean, hoping that it provided some measure of comfort. Dean was shaking in his arms, as if he wasn't convinced that it had just been a nightmare, as if he were waiting for the flames to erupt.

"Hey, Dean-do you want Sammy?" John asked, trying to sound cheerful. "We can go see Sammy."

Dean nodded and wiped the tears from his eyes. _Only babies cry_. He didn't want Sammy to start treating him like the kids at school treated him; Dean wasn't sure he would survive that.

John took Dean's hand and led him to Sam's bedroom, right across the hall. He opened the door gently and entered the room quietly, hoping to avoid waking the toddler up. Dean let go of John's hand and took a step forward, so he could see his little brother better.

Sam was fast asleep in the bed, clutching the teddy bear Dean had bought him for his birthday. His brown hair was sticking up in all directions, and he was sprawled out diagonally across the bed; he looked comfortable, as if he didn't have a care in the world. Dean smiled; Sammy was safe. That was all that mattered.

"You want to stay in here, Dean?" John whispered. "I can go get your blanket and your pillows.

Dean looked back at his father and nodded. John headed back to his son's room to grab bedding. As he looked around Dean's room, he was filled with grief. Grief over losing his wife, grief over losing his outgoing, cheerful son, grief over losing his sense of security and almost everything he had believed to be true.

After a moment, that grief turned to anger. Seething, white-hot anger. John was _pissed._ He was pissed at the thing that had done all of this to his family, the thing that had stolen his life from him. John wanted nothing more than to kill it.

John knew he was going to have to make some changes; it was time for him to really learn to hunt. He'd had some training with a pastor in Blue Earth, Minnesota, but nothing intensive. That pastor-Jim Murphy-had given him the number for a guy in South Dakota, a real expert. He'd avoided making the call for the past year, justifying the delay with Dean's condition. He couldn't go anywhere when his son was so vulnerable-Dean needed him. But John knew he couldn't wait any longer.

John marched to the kitchen, Dean's pillow and blanket in his arms. He reached for the tattered piece of paper that Jim had written the number on; he dialed it carefully on the phone. It rang three times before going to voicemail.

"Singer Salvage Yard. Leave your message, and I'll get back to ya."

"My name is John Winchester," John began, his voice quiet. "I'm a friend of Jim Murphy's. I'm looking for a hunting buddy; give me a call back at 498-276-1943."

A sense of relief washed over John when he hang over the phone; he had done it. He had made the first step to finding the thing that had taken his Mary away from him. He would capture and kill it, and finally be able to tell his oldest son that they were safe.

John walked back to the bedroom, ready to tuck Dean into bed. But when he entered the room, he saw that Dean was in Sam's bed, curled up next to his brother's slumbering form. All traces of anxiety had faded from his little face, and he was sleeping peacefully. John smiled, walked across the room, and kissed both of his boys on the forehead.

The Winchesters were going to be okay. John was going to make sure of it.


	2. Chapter 2

Three days later, John Winchester was once again standing in his kitchen. It was just after dinner; he and Dean were washing the dishes. Dean seemed to enjoy doing the chore with John; Dean would scrub the plates, and John would dry them and put them away. Every so often, he pretended to almost drop a plate; he made a big show of wiping his brow and sighing. Dean got a kick out of the charade; he burst into peals of laughter every time.

Sam was sitting on the floor, four feet away, playing with an oversized toy car and making accompanying sound effects. John smiled as his youngest rolled the toy into the wall and attempted to impersonate the sound of a car crash; Dean used to do the same thing.

The phone began to ring; John placed the last plate in the cabinet before heading across the room to pick it up. He pressed a finger to his lips, a signal to his sons to stay quiet. Well, really, a signal to Sam to keep quiet-there was nothing that Dean did better.

"Hello, John Winchester speaking," John answered automatically. He was expecting a telemarketer. Ever since the family had left Lawrence and moved a few counties over, they didn't hear from family friends; and in between working, reading lore on different creatures, and caring for his children, he didn't have time to get to know new people.

"Hey, Winchester. I got your message. This is Bobby Singer," a gruff voice on the other line replied. John's grip on the phone tightened. "Hunting buddy? What the hell does that mean? You need backup?"

"Sorry, wasn't quite sure how to put it," John answered, running a hand through his hair. He down at the floor, where Sam had been a moment ago; now Dean sat beside his brother, helping him to guide the toy in circles. "Jim Murphy taught me the basics of hunting about a year ago, but he told me to call you to learn the real shit."

There was a pause; if John couldn't hear heavy breathing on the other end of the line, he would have sworn that he had been hung up on. "How do I know you're not full of it?"

"Call Jim," John retorted without missing a beat. He had nothing to hide. "Then call me back."

"Think I'll do that," the hunter snapped; the line went dead.

John put the phone back on the hook. He waited a moment; it didn't ring. John shrugged his shoulders and kneeled down next to his boys, who had given up on attempting to crash the car into every surface in the kitchen. Instead, they were lying side-by-side on the kitchen floor, drawing on a pad of paper John had bought them. Sam's artwork consisted of various different-colored scribbles; if John had to guess, he would say that his youngest was inspired by Picasso. Or maybe his fine motor skills still sucked. After all, he was barely two.

Dean, on the other hand, was a decent artist. He was careful with where he placed his crayon, deliberate with his color choice and his line work. The first grader was drawing a tiger, his favorite animal; John grinned and fought back laughter. Dean's lips were pursed, and his eyes were focused on his page; he didn't blink. He was clearly invested in his picture.

"Nice work, ace," John complimented his eldest. Dean looked up from his paper and smiled at his dad, grateful for the appreciation. "You too, Sammy."

"Mine a unicorn. It jumps out of sun," Sam announced, his tone matter-of-fact. John tilted his head and examined the toddler's picture; if he squinted, he could kind of see a blue, purple, and red squiggle emerging from a large, deformed orange circle.

"Unicorns live on the sun?" John asked, amused. He absolutely adored Sam's imagination and outspoken nature; the toddler always had something interesting to say.

"Mhm-hmm!" Sam replied affirmatively. "Leprechauns live on the moon, 'cause they like cheese."

"How could I have forgot?" John chuckled.

After a couple more moments, the telephone rang again; John stood up and hurried over to the phone. He held it to his ear and waited for the hunter on the other line to say something.

"Okay Winchester, you check out," Bobby announced tersely. "I'm in Sioux Falls, South Dakota. How soon 'til you can get your ass down here?"

John contemplated for a minute. The family was staying in Merriam, Kansas; it was only a six hour drive. But John had to take the boys out of school and figure out what to do about the house.

"Depends. How long will we be staying?" John asked, looking at his sons. The two were still on the floor, oblivious to what he was saying on the phone; they were too busy laughing. Dean was making funny faces at Sam; he laughed whenever Sam laughed at him.

"Don't know. Takes as long as it takes. If you've got a rental, I'd cancel it," Singer replied. "Tell you what. Get here when you get here. I'll have a room ready for you."

"Okay," John replied, pressing his hand to his forehead. He had a lot of work to do. "Thanks, Singer."

"Thank me when you learn how to kill things," Bobby retorted-with that, the line went dead.

John hung up the phone and glanced over at his boys; the two looked up at him with matching grins. They had no idea that they were about to be uprooted from the place that they called home.

"Daddy? Can you make couch fort? We want to play dragons," Sam announced. Dean, always a supportive brother, nodded in agreement.

As John looked down at his smiling sons-his happy, healthy boys-he couldn't bring himself to tell them. It would only upset them. Instead, he plastered on a smile and nodded. "Of course I can!"

 _I'll let them know tomorrow,_ he thought. He could break his sons' hearts in the morning; right now, all he wanted to do was make them smile.

SPN~SPN~SPN

John Winchester walked through Dean's room, collecting the last of his son's belongings and stuffing them into a duffle bag. The contents of the bag were the only things Dean would be bringing with him to start his life in Sioux Falls; everything else would stay in a storage locker in the center of town.

It had been four days since he had spoken with Bobby, and they were almost ready to go. He'd talked to the landlord, who had agreed to find someone to finish out his lease; he'd talked with Dean's school and gotten a copy of his transcripts; he'd packed up most of their belongings. All there was left to do was decide what was going with them.

It was easy enough to pack for Sam; John placed carefully folded clothes into a duffle bag and shoved as many toys as he could fit into a backpack. Sam was still at the age where he could be entertained with a cardboard box. Dean, however, was a bit more difficult to pack for.

John's eldest had a fair amount of toys; after the fire, the town had rallied around his boys. Dean had made out like a bandit; he had every toy known to man, twice over.

John knew he couldn't pack it all, but he couldn't leave any of it behind.

"Dean!" John called out; Dean could decide what he wanted to bring with him.

When Dean walked into the bedroom, he looked up at his father, perplexed. He'd just been told they were leaving Kansas the day before, and now his room was almost empty. It was a lot of change, and he didn't like it.

"Hey, buddy," John crouched down so that he could make eye contact with his son. "I need you to pick what toys you want to bring with you. We can't bring them all, so I need you to pick what's important to you. Can you do that for me, ace?"

Dean nodded; he would do anything for his father. Besides, he knew exactly what he wanted to keep.

Dean walked over to his toy box and pulled out his copy of Candyland; he rarely played anymore, but he could remember all of the times that he played with his mom before she died. He pulled out his Linkin' logs; Sammy was starting to like to play with them. Finally, Dean walked over to his bed and grabbed his teddy bear, the one that his mom had bought him years ago.

She had given it to him when he was a baby; he had slept with it every night since he was born. When he was little, he used to make his kiss the teddy bear goodnight before she did the same to him. He had left it in the car the night before the fire by mistake; he'd never been so happy to screw up. For weeks after the fire, it still had smelled like his mother's perfume.

Dean clutched the bear in his arms and thought back to all of the times his mother had read him stories as Dean laid in bed, curled up with the teddy bear by his side. Dean had loved that time with his Mom.

"Is that all you want to bring with you, bud?" John asked the boy. Dean looked up at his father and nodded, snuggling the bear tighter to his chest. "Okay then, bud. I'll pack the rest of this up. We head out in the morning."

SPN~SPN~SPN

The next morning, Dean was in the backseat of the Impala, watching the trees pass him by. Sam sat in the car seat next to him, alternately dozing off and whining that he wanted to get out of the car.

It felt like he'd been in the car forever; they had left right after sunrise. They had only stopped twice; once for breakfast, and once so everyone could go to the bathroom. Dean was bored out of his mind, but he wasn't going to annoy his Dad; Sam already had that covered.

"Are we there yet?" Sam whined, kicking his legs out. "We've been driving forever!"

"We've been driving for five hours," John replied, doing his best to keep his voice level. Sure, Sam was being a bit of a pain, but he was just a baby. "We'll be there soon."

John knew that he should pull over and let his boys stretch their legs, but he wanted to get to Sioux Falls as soon as possible. He'd been waiting over a year to learn how to kill the thing that had taken his wife from him, and now he was within forty miles of the answers that he had been craving. The kids would survive for another hour.

Dean stared at the back of his father's head; he wondered why they had to leave Kansas. He liked it there. There were parks and his teacher was nice and Mom was buried there. His Dad had taken them to visit Mom's grave yesterday; Sammy had toddled around. John had stood in front of the grave silently, lost in his own thoughts. Dean had sat down in front of the grave and ran his finders over the engraved letters; _Mary Winchester. Beloved wife and mother._

Dean had wondered if his mother could see him, wondered if she knew how much he missed her. He wished she could be here. She would know how to make Dean feel safe.

But his Mom wasn't there; she never would be again. Dean had Sammy and his Dad, and that would have to be enough.

They were passing through the center of town now; there were a few stores, a couple of small restaurants, and a few dozen people milling around the streets. Dean craned his neck, looking to see if there were any children his age out there; he hoped there weren't. Kids were mean.

They continued to drive for about fifteen more minutes, before they came to a sign on the side of the road. _Singer Salvage Yard._ John turned onto the dirt road; after a couple of minutes, they pulled up in front of a three-story red house.

John cut the engine and unbuckled his seat belt. He walked over to the back seat and unbuckled Sam's car seat; he lifted the toddler up.

"Let's go, Dean," John called out. "This is where we'll be staying."

Dean reluctantly opened his door and stepped out of the car. His eyes roamed over the landscape; the entire front yard was made up of wilted grass. To his right, there were a few old cars on cement blocks; to his left was a dilapidated old swing set.

Dean already knew he didn't like it here.

His Dad held out his hand, and Dean took it; together, the family clambered up the rickety wooden steps that lead to the front door. John knocked on the door, being careful not to jostle the sleeping toddler in his arms.

The door opened, revealing a bearded, red headed man dressed in a flannel shirt and a pair of jeans. He looked to John first-then at Sammy, and then at Dean.

"Winchester?" Bobby Singer asked in a gruff voice.

"That's me," John replied, his voice steady.

"Didn't tell me you had kids you'd be bring with you," he growled, clearly annoyed. "That's the kinda thing you tell a man before moving into his house."

"Sorry," John retorted. "Slipped my mind."

"The fact that you had kids slipped your mind?" Bobby shot back, keeping his voice level. Bobby didn't hate kids; far from it, actually. Back when his wife was alive, he and his wife had been planning on having a couple. He just hated not being prepared.

But he wouldn't take that out on these kids. Bobby kneeled down, so that he was at eye level with the little boy who was hiding behind John's leg. He offered a smile and a wave. "Hiya. My name's Bobby. What's your name?"

Dean held tight to his father's leg and looked up at him, desperate for help.

"This is Dean. He doesn't talk," John answered; Dean looked at Bobby and nodded.

"Well, that's okay," Bobby replied, still smiling at the child. "I don't talk much neither."

"This is Sam," John introduced his youngest son, who was still sleeping on his shoulder.

"Well, since you're introducing me to your boys, let me introduce you to mine," Bobby said, looking back to the door. "Caleb! Come on out here, will ya?"

A few seconds later, a teenage boy appeared in the doorway. He had brown hair that was cropped close to his scalp, green eyes, and pale skin; he wore a pair of khaki shorts and a t-shirt. He looked over the family, unimpressed.

"This is Caleb. He lives here," Bobby announced. Caleb offered a wave, doing his best not to look irritated. "Caleb, that's John, that's Dean, and that's Sam."

"Are you Bobby's son, Caleb?" John asked, shaking the teen's hand.

"Nope, just a freeloader who has a room here," Caleb replied. "Heads up-the food sucks and the service are a bit sub-par."

Bobby jokingly tapped Caleb on the back of the head. "The only service you're going to get is a complimentary breakfast on the day you move out."

"Can't wait," Caleb replied, his voice jovial. "I'm doing some research; may I be excused?"

"First, can you take Dean to your room?" Bobby asked. "I didn't plan on any kids. We're going to have to do some rearranging."

"I guess so, but I'm not sharing my bed," Caleb replied. He turned to Dean and offered a smile. "Alright, follow me, Dean."

Dean followed Caleb up two flights of stairs and through a hallway, until they reached a heavy oak door. Caleb threw it open to reveal a bedroom; he led Dean in.

"Alright, let's run through some rules," Caleb said, picking up the clothes that he had left on the ground. "You don't touch my closet; I'll clear out half the bureau for you later. You don't touch my bed. You don't touch my books. If we're both in here and I'm doing homework, you're quiet. You get me?"

Quiet? Dean could do that. He nodded.

"You speak at all?" Caleb asked, his tone conversational. He wasn't trying to be rude; he just figured that such a small kid should be chattier. When he was seven, he had never shut up.

Dean shook his head earnestly.

"There a reason for that?" Caleb asked, curious. Dean shrugged his shoulders and looked away; although Caleb was still interested, he dropped the topic. Silence worked better for him, anyway. "Okay. I'm heading to the library to do some research. I'll see you later."

Caleb left the room in a hurry, closing the door behind him.

Dean walked over to the window and stared out at the yard behind him. There was no grass in site, nothing to play with-just rows and rows of junk cars. For the second time that day, Dean thought about how much he missed Kansas.

It was going to be a long few weeks.


End file.
